Ruth Rendell - The Monster in the Box (Inspector Wexford, Book 22)

He had never told anyone. The strange relationship,if it could be called that, had gone on for years,decades, and he had never breathed a word aboutit. He had kept silent because he knew no one would believehim. None of it could be proved, not the stalking, not thestares, the conspiratorial smiles, not the killings, not any ofthe signs Targo had made because he knew that Wexfordknew and could do nothing about it.

It had gone on for years and then it had stopped. Or seemed.to have stopped. Targo was gone. Back to Birmingham yetagain or perhaps to Coventry. A long time had passed sincehe had been seen in Kingsmarkham and Wexford had thoughtit was all over. Thought with regret, not relief, because if Targodisappeared more to the point, if Targo never did it again what hope had he of bringing the man to justice? Still, he hadalmost made up his mind he would never see him any more.He would never again set eyes on that short, muscular figurewith the broad shoulders and the thick sturdy legs, the coarsefairish hair, blunt features and bright blue eyes and the markthat must always be kept covered up. Wexford had only onceseen him without the scarf he wore wrapped round his neck,a wool scarf in winter, a cotton or silk one in summer, a scarfthat belonged to one of his wives perhaps, no matter so longas it covered that purple-brown birthmark which disfiguredhis neck, crept up to his cheek and dribbled down to his chest.He had seen him only once without a scarf, never withouta dog.

Eric Targo. Older than Wexford by seven or eight years, amuch-married man, van driver, property developer, kennelsproprietor, animal lover, murderer. It was coincidence orchance Wexford favoured the latter that he was thinkingabout Targo for the first time in weeks, wondering what hadhappened to him, pondering and dismissing the rumour thathe was back living in the area, regretting that he had neverproved anything against him, when the man appeared in frontof him, a hundred yards ahead. There was no doubt in hismind, even at that distance, even though Targo's shock of hairwas quite white now. He still strutted, straight-backed, theway a short man carries himself, and he still wore a scarf. Inhis left hand, on the side nearest to Wexford, he carried alaptop computer. Or, to be accurate, a case made to holda laptop.

Wexford was in his car. He pulled in to the side of GlebeRoad and switched off the engine. Targo had got out ofa white van and gone into a house on the same side asWexford was parked. No dog? Wexford had to decide whetherhe wanted Targo to see him. Perhaps it hardly mattered. Howlong was it? Ten years? More? He got out of the car andbegan to walk in the direction of the house Targo had goneinto. It was one of a terrace between a jerry-built block offlats and a row of small shops, an estate agent, a nail bar, anewsagent and a shop called Webb and Cobb (a nameWexford found amusing) once selling pottery and kitchenutensils but now closed down and boarded up. Mike Burdenhad lived here once, when he was first married to his firstwife; number 36, Wexford remembered. Number 34 was thehouse Targo had gone into. The front door of Burden'sold house was painted purple now and the new residentshad paved over their narrow strip of front garden to make amotorbike park, something Burden said he resented, as if hehad any right to a say in what the present owners did to theirproperty. It made Wexford smile to himself to think of it.

There was no sign of Targo. Wexford walked up to theoffside of the van and looked through the driver's window. Itwas open about three inches, for the benefit of a smallishdog, white and a tawny colour, of a feathery-eared, long-coatedbreed he didn't recognise, sitting on the passenger seat. Itturned its head to look at Wexford and let out a single sharpyap, not very loud, not at all angry. Wexford returned to hiscar and moved it up the road to a position on the oppositeside to the white van, between a Honda and a Vauxhall. Fromthere he could command a good view of number 34. Howlong would Targo stay in there? And what had he been doingwith the laptop or the laptop case? It seemed an unlikelyplace for any friend of Targo's to live. When he had last seenthe owner of the whitish-tawny dog and the white van, Targohad been doing well for himself, was a rich man, while GlebeRoad was a humble street where several families of immigrantshad settled and which Burden had moved out of as soonas he could afford to.